Seasons
by Becky215
Summary: Seasons pass in the early months and years of John and Margaret's marriage.
1. Summer & Autumn

_Disclaimer_: No copyright infringement is intended.

**Seasons**

In the evening of summer, the hours were late and lazy, the sky blushing with pink as the sun brushed one longing caress against the clouds that still feathered the pearly blue heavens. After finishing his supper and reading the final columns of the paper, John Thornton would curl his arm around his young wife's waist, smiling at the light in her smile and the flush on her cheek that mirrored the same seashell colors of the world outside.

On those quiet nights, Thornton would bid his mother a good night as he escorted Margaret towards the front door. With hardly a moment's pause, she would reach for a bonnet and follow her husband into the stillness of twilight. Hannah Thornton never knew what occupied them out of doors; there were evenings when she could hear the hushed resonance of the girl's laughter as they ambled in the courtyard behind the mill's lock and panel, but other evenings would leave her nothing but the sound of a bird wandering in the sky beyond the window.

In the evenings of summer, Thornton and his wife would take a turn around the courtyard, talking slowly of dreams and ideas as their footsteps echoed on the cobblestones underfoot. He would hold her hand in his own, pressing her fingers so he might see the trace of his touch on her skin. When they walked, prisoners to the sky and guardians of the rising moon, he would tell her secrets from the past and promises from his heart. She would never relinquish his embrace as they walked, just as she would never abandon the heart that he so gently placed in her hands with each morning that the sun discovered them in each other's arms.

One night found them walking with measured steps. More than a year had passed since their hurried springtime nuptials, and the heat of July made Margaret's gown cling to her shoulders, but she took little notice. Her fingers kneaded the taut muscle knotted at the small of her back, and her helpless husband watched her walk four paces before him. She was near her time, but the curves of her body cut a startling silhouette against the fading sunshine. He knew that she liked to walk, that she grew tired of sitting idly about the house for most of the day. Walking made her happy, and in those quiet days, it was his duty to satisfy the smile on her lips.

She was lovely in the evening. The promise of new life had offered her the gift of light, for it seemed that she was glowing as the heavy night air set in for the evening. Her eyes, her smile, her hair, her skin, all were aglow with expectation and the ruddy sheen of life and vitality. The months had passed to bear new discoveries. He'd found a measured difference in the weight of her breasts, the shape of her hips. Her kisses seemed softer, and her eyes seemed quieter. So much changed in those days of genesis, but still he came to her each night with love and desire traced upon his heart.

They slept like children in those sweltering evenings of June. Cradled by the pearly moonlight and stroked by the thick breezes that crept through the curtains near an open window, dreams would find them. Margaret surrendered to sleep with ease in those days, but her husband would keep awake until all hours of the night, touching and pressing, stroking and teasing, wondering and praying for the child he called his own. His fingers would caress her skin, traveling over bone and muscle to feel the raucous adventures of the child within her belly. She smelled of sweet sweat and daffodils, but he wanted nothing more than to get lost inside her, to feel the safety of her arms like the babe she would soon hold to her breast.

The boy was born in the evening. He opened his eyes in the black of night, startled by his mother's tears and the vivid joy sketched upon his father's face. When he was passed to Margaret's trembling arms, the warmth of the night had settled into the room, and the boy looked up to a sea of stars and an endless world of love in his gentle mother's smile.

**********

In the amber world of autumn, the cool breeze was a sigh of relief as the heat of summer faded into memory. Leaves stained in gold, maroon, and canary yellow drifted into town from the countryside, mingling with the dirt and soot to release a burst of color upon Milton's unsuspecting landscape. After a dinner of lush vegetables and spiced meats, Margaret Thornton would recline in her chair, smiling at her husband as her hand darted under the tablecloth to find the curious mystery of his fingers in the shadows.

They enjoyed desserts that were made of the ripest fruits. Rhubarb pies were tart and sweet all at once, and the scarlet skins of the apples gleamed and winked in the brilliant candlelight. Thornton would watch his wife as she laughingly caught the tangy nectar of a peach from creeping down her wrist; her tongue was quick, and she closed her eyes to the elegant ecstasy of honeyed sweetness. She blushed under her mother in law's scrutiny, but the flames of her cheek only grew stronger when she caught her husband's eye in those stolen moments.

Margaret Thornton had been taught to count her blessings at harvest time. A life that began in the thickets and fields of farmland was tethered to the fruits and gifts that emerged at the close of a successful harvest. As a girl, she would spend those honey-colored evenings thanking God for her parents and their kindness, for her brother and all his laughter, for friends and sunlight that coaxed her into a world that was filled with love and tenderness. Since removing to Milton, she had discovered the new shape of her blessings. She watched the leaves amble through the streets and thanked her lord for the seasons and prosperity. She studied the mill workers as they savored the lunches prepared by Mary Higgins and honored God for his benevolence. She was thankful for blessings and opportunities, but in the still silence of the family living room, she knew each year that she was most thankful for second chances.

One night found her standing near the window. Mrs. Thornton was visiting Fanny as she reached the end of her confinement, and thus Margaret was alone in an empty house, comforted by the ticking hands of the clock and the mumbled hum of voices echoing from the mill yard. The workers were leaving for the evening, holding their caps in hand and testing the weather with bare flesh to see if winter coats would soon become a concern. The dwindling sunlight revealed the flickering candlelight across the way in her husband's office, but Margaret held onto the window frame and watched the night. It was a warm autumn, still perfumed with the smells of summer as cooler air crept into Milton.

The moon was to be absent that night, but she liked the darkness when she could find it. There was comfort in a world without shadows, and she would challenge herself in the black of her marriage bed, reaching out to her husband and tracing the shape of his body from memory. Moonless nights revealed discoveries that could not be seen with the eyes or heard with even the most careful of ears; on those evenings, she learned by taste, reveled in new textures, memorized the bittersweet scent of his flesh. She knew him best in the darkness, for there she recognized him as a man that no other person on earth could know. She delighted in the shared secrets she uncovered, but as she stood before the window, she felt the fevered flush of August air kiss her skin as her thoughts wandered away from her control.

An empty house makes a wealth of noises, but she ignored them as she waited and watched for her husband. Creaking floorboards and moaning door hinges are commonplace in such an old building, so she did not look up when the gentleman's footfall burdened the floor panels in the sitting room. She was mesmerized by autumn and the bronze whisper that covered all of Milton. She did not hear the soft rustle of fabric that could only have been the brush of a waistcoat against linen and silk.

She was thinking of the early months of their marriage, thankful that they had had time and freedom to explore, touch, question, and learn. She blushed to remember of the few fumbled arguments that had divided them as they came to better understand each other, but her flesh tingled to recall the deliciousness of reuniting and kissing away the sorrows of disagreement.

For a moment, she imagined that the warm breath on her neck was only the panting sigh of an August wind. Such a conclusion was short lived, for strong hands encircled her waist, slipping over her bodice and pressing into her hips through the folds of her gown. The arms were warm and familiar, the flesh on the hands still kissed by the honeyed sunlight of summertime.

He whispered her name, and she fell into his embrace without a word, thankful for his touch and the brush of his finger on her cheek. He held her fast, hands exploring with the boldness and certainty of a trusted lover. He felt the swell of her breast and the hunger of her kiss as she reached for him. There was freedom in an empty house, delight in knowing that the only whispers were their own, joy in her sweet sighs as she ached for more of his affections.

In the evenings of too many autumn nights, they went to bed without supper. Thornton would lead his bride into their chamber, bolting the door as her fingers made quick work of his cravat. They would lose themselves in the sea of love that swallowed them whole, feasting on smiles and caresses that summoned mingled tears and laughter. On that particular night, Margaret was rewarded with the darkness of an absent harvest moon. Their room was cloaked in black, but as she surrendered to her husband's touch, the light in her heart could not be contained.


	2. Winter

In the winter, the world was frozen as the breath of snow and ice whispered over Milton. Looking out the window revealed a picture of blues and greys, hints of pink and silver trapped in white and black. Winter was a time of contrasts, as old beginnings became new conclusions and a fireplace's warmth was the food of the soul.

On those evenings, Thornton would gather his young wife in his arms and imagine for a moment the life of an Eskimo. He'd heard stories about men who made their life from ice and snow, using the crystal prizes of January frost to save the heat of hearth and home. Families lived in huts of ice that twinkled in the sun when it chose to show its face. There were nights when he would tell Margaret of those strange people and the stories he'd found in scattered newspaper clippings on cloudy afternoons; she would listen and shiver at the pretended chill that crept into her bones from the words on his lips.

He liked holding her in his arms, savoring the warm weight of her body against his own as her fingers drew circles and figure-eights on the flesh stretching across his knuckles. She once marveled that men should be so different from women, but the sweet treasures of bare thigh and lithe limb made him thankful for such diversity. Her trembling at his stories only made him laugh, and she would imagine that the firelight ebbed and flowed with the melodic timbre of his voice.

On winter nights, the sun abandoned them at tea time. Margaret would strain to follow the lines of a chapter in whatever book she was reading as one of the maids began to light the evening candles, and Mrs. Thornton would remove to a seat close to the fire so she might continue her needlepoint. Margaret always wondered how Hannah could keep busy with such repetitive work, but the women made room for each other's habits and proclivities. Margaret would admire the sunlight as it was snuffed out by the clouds, and most nights found her watching another cool frost curling over Milton. As a child she'd studied the curious curl of her breath in the wintertime, how it slipped past her lips and caressed her cheek before joining the clouds that ambled on the horizon. She watched as steel grey frost stroked the rooftops and chimneys of her little town, and she wondered if it was only the breath of God, visible for a moment in the glory of winter's snowfall.

On one particular night, Thornton guided his wife into the darkness beyond the front door. The night was so still and quiet that one could hear anything in the darkness; Margaret thought she heard a voice, and then a symphony, and then the distant echo of her mother's laughter. Winter is a cruel trickster; it covers the world with a blank canvas on which one could draw anything. She tucked her hand into the warm fold of her husband's coat and followed his footprints through the thin shadow of snow on the ground.

She did not ask where they were going; she knew already. She kept his pace and felt the ice on her skin. It brought back the sudden memory of sadness, and each melting snowflake seemed to be a remembered tear. Thornton noticed the pause in her step and stopped to press her hand in his own. In the darkness, she was a shape against the white flakes that fell lazily on her shoulders. The house was aglow behind them, and pale golden light winked across her ivory cheek.

She said nothing as he touched her chin, drawing her lips to his for a kiss that was slow and thoughtful, gentle and at ease. He liked that he could touch and explore with the comfort of a familiar lover. She was his, and he was hers. His heart was full with the thought; he'd spent a lifetime belonging to nothing and everything all at once. It was a blissful joy to belong to someone who understood all that was inside him and delighted in everything he was meant to be.

Thornton kissed away the ghosts of tears, tasting salt and winter on her cheek as his fingers brushed across her wrist, drawing her closer to protect from winter's icy embrace. She smiled and feigned embarrassment at being caught up in her thoughts, but he knew her heart and its elegant terrain. His Margaret followed her dreams and ideas into corners lighted with sunshine and others blighted by shadow; she trusted her heart and her husband with equal fidelity, knowing that one or the other would see her through to truth and beauty. It was a sunny morning in January when she'd discovered that "one or the other" was no longer a question; touching her husband's bare skin and admiring the sweet smile that took hold of his lips, she knew that her heart and her husband were one in the same.  
They pressed on, walking with their heads bowed as they hurried up the steps to the mill door. He opened the door with a latchkey and ushered her inside. Cotton still danced dazedly in the gossamer lamplight from outside. It reminded Margaret of the snow, but she smiled at the smell of life that seemed to pour from every corner of the room.

They walked slowly, and their footsteps echoed on the floor beneath them. She liked to be kept abreast of the business, even if most of the terms were new and complicated. He was patient and eager to explain; he enjoyed the sweet nod of her head as she listened and questioned, and he savored those moments when she ventured a challenge or suggestion that he had never before considered.

Their evening tours were always after hours, after the men had left and the machines were stopped, when the whir of enterprise faded to the dull chorus of footsteps and snowfall that serenaded them on that particular evening. The journey would inevitably end in his office, under the watchful protection of burdened bookcases and volumes of ledgers. She would light a candle and join him on the small sofa near the door. It was a routine, but there was peace and security within it. She could hold his hand and know that his thumb would brush over her pulse. He could kiss her cheek and know that she would sigh with exquisite slowness.

They sat on the sofa and said only a few words on that night. The large window beyond Thornton's desk revealed the black of winter's night, but they could imagine what happened in the shadows. Snow was falling, ice was forming, and the world was slipping away as another day faded towards tomorrow. In the comfort of his office, on the cushion of his sofa, the young couple could forget about shadows and the winter cold. Thornton had his arms about her, and her gentle kiss was salvation from January's brutality. She cupped his cheek and smiled in the candlelight, laughing as he peeled away her coat and hat and gloves and scarf. Winter was a giant, black and white and powerful, but her husband's love was a goliath, warm and hot and alive with the fire of his heart. She was safe from the former in the arms of the latter, and on that night, like most nights, she surrendered to the tender force that bound their hearts together.


	3. Spring

In the evenings of spring, the air is cool and wet. Pink and blue clouds hover over Milton, and rain seems to bother the city for most of the mornings and afternoons of each passing day. It was different in the evenings; after the rain had stopped, the clouds rolled away to reveal a sun that flickered with shades of amber and lavender. Puddles would reflect the waning glow of twilight, and the air above Milton was sweet with the whispers of flowers that grew beyond the smog of the city.

On those evenings, dinner was served late and the desserts were stuffed with fresh fruits and spices. The family savored the nighttime to enjoy the peace of silence, and all too often the new mistress found herself on the sofa with her sketchpad and a box of charcoal pencils. Thornton would stand over his wife, watching the wind curl a lock of hair that had escaped her chignon, and he would watch to see what the world looked like through her eyes. She created pictures of the cloudy mill, but her drawings were rarely captured in grey and black. He was surprised to discover that the saw shades of blue in the cobblestones and threads of red creeping up the chimneys. He liked to imagine what it would be like to have her goodness and her trust; there were days when he wondered if God would ever reveal the sun again, but Margaret seemed always to believe that the birds would sing on every day of the calendar.

Spring was perfect in its way. Snow and ice melted away to reveal green grass and pouting pink blossoms on the hillside, and warmer weather seemed to draw a smile to everyone's lips. It was a time of new beginnings, new stories to tell and new adventures to be had. Thornton continued to listen as his mother talked of bills and matters of salary for the servants, but he was watching his wife as she lounged on the sofa with her colors and paper. Though he felt as if they'd spent a lifetime together, four weeks of marriage were hardly enough to constitute forever, and everyday he seemed to learn something new about his young wife's heart and sensibilities. She did not braid her hair before bed, as his mother and sister often did, and she preferred a soap made from milk and orange blossoms. She slept with her lips parted in a secretive smile, and she held his hands as they made love.

On that particular night, as her husband kept watch over her smile and studied the arcs of her pencil, Margaret was thinking about the art of starting a new chapter in her life. She'd moved her life into the sprawling house on Marlborough Street, but still it did not yet feel like home. She woke each morning to find her mother in law at the breakfast table, and she spent her days politely asking for permission to explore the rooms that remained under lock and key. It was strange to feel one's steps being watched and counted, but Margaret worked tirelessly to be gentle and accommodating.

It was only in the evenings, when the final bell had sounded in the mill yard, that Margaret felt in place within her new home. Her husband would sweep through the foyer and into the sitting room, and a few breathless moments could pass before his arms were warm around her waist. She celebrated his smile on each of those evenings; it was a gift he shared with so few, but its luminous glow was enough to put any spring posy to shame.

She looked up from her thoughts to find Thornton gazing at the work before her. She was sketching the clouds that were feathered above the mill gates. She blushingly explained that they had not come out as she'd hoped, but he pressed her hand and drew her into his arms once again. His mother excused herself, as she often did in the springtime; rainy puddles and smears of sunshine were not enough for a woman who preferred decisiveness and certainty. She often retired early on those damp April evenings, leaving the young lovers to the secrets one can find in the sweet kiss of one's beloved.

He settled onto the sofa beside her, smiling to himself as she pressed her fingers to her lips in concentration. Something was missing from the portrait of Milton; she looked up at the view beyond the window then turned back to her sketch, but she could not isolate what was wrong. He admired her in her thoughts, but he quietly took the paper from her and glanced out the window, as well. She wondered if it might be the birds on the roof or the sunshine peaking around the corner, but the elements were all in place.

He reached for her yellow pencil and pressed a golden mark onto the portrait. She gasped to stall his movement, but she noticed that his stroke was intentional. The canary mark was placed in the corner of the sketch featuring the window of his office. She wanted to laugh at his deliberate artistry; he did not smudge the mark to give it the appearance of candlelight or realism. He worked with the precision of a businessman, but the effect of his contribution was evident. She held the sketchpad away from her lap and admired the final product; all of Marlborough Mills was captured as it was beyond the windows, and the bold flash of gold suggested that the master was in place within his office, working late to ensure that all was working as planned.

She looked up at her husband and delighted in his smile. She loved the smear of yellow on the meat of his palm, and she loved the childish satisfaction in his grin. She asked if he fancied himself an artist, but he pressed his lips to her brow and said that he would leave her the task of finding beauty in the world. Her beauty was all that needed to be found.

She blushed at his words but admitted that he had found what was missing from her sketch. He asked after her thoughts, brushing his lips against her soft cheek as she abandoned her art to hold his hands. She was distracted by his administrations, by the gentle spring breeze that stirred the room and the warmth of her thoughts, so he asked again.

"What was missing?"

"You," she breathed. "You were missing."

Apologies for my absence! I'm 97% finished with my senior thesis, so that is all I have to show in explanation for my absence. I can only hope that I'll reform and post more regularly from here on out. -CH


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